Misread

by Lorenzo Piccoli


After ten full months on the run, I am now heading back to Florence where I will try to settle down and find my compass once and for all. Among many other things I have burned these last two months there was the sense of the changing seasons. When I left Turin in early March it was twenty five degrees, sunny, clean view. I went to Andalusia and it was thirty degrees and running. Then the very same day I arrived in Madrid there was a snowstorm and I spent the next five days freezing my bones off: the only reason I survived was the coat that Pedro borrowed me. In Barcelona it was pretty chill too, then in Trento and in Milan I found that kind of deliciously temporary heath that disappeared the very moment I landed in Manchester. During my days in the United Kingdom, the temperature was down to five degrees for some nice winter time again.

Now in Tuscany I am really, really keen of finding my own Spring time. This usually comes with a combination of sun, stillness, pretty songs like this, Sangiovese wine, olives, bikes, weekend visits to small-size Italian towns, football matches with the smell of grass at sunset, last-minute train tickets, long swims in cold rivers, little notebooks full of drawings.

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